Page 50 of Justice Delayed

Melender spooned sour cream on top of her chicken, peppers, and onions, then sprinkled cheese over it before wrapping up the tortilla. She’d grown to love fajitas since her release from prison because she could pick and choose what to put on them as opposed to simply getting whatever the cafeteria was serving.

Beside her, Brogan assembled his own meal, while Mr. and Mrs. Trent chatted about the sermon. Before she left for church, the Trents had invited Melender to lunch. To Melender’s surprise, Brogan had shown up at the house as well, looking entirely too handsome in a bright green polo shirt and pressed khaki pants.

“Melender, what passage did your pastor preach on today?” Mrs. Trent passed the salsa to her husband.

Melender swallowed her bite. “He’s preaching through Ephesians. Today’s passage centered on Ephesians 4:32. ‘Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another as God in Christ forgave you.’”

“You memorized that since this morning?” Brogan asked.

She laughed. “No, that was a favorite verse of my grandmother’s. She made me memorize it one summer when I kept getting into fights with my best friend, Robyn. Anytime we were bickering within earshot of Sudie, she would march up to us, plant her hands on her hips, and say, ‘Ephesians 4:32, girls.’ Then we had to repeat the verse. That usually cooled us off enough to forget what we were tussling about and move on to something else.”

“She sounds like a wise woman,” Mr. Trent said. “You must miss her.”

Melender fought off the melancholy that nearly always accompanied memories of Sudie. “She was, and I do.” She drew in a breath to hold the tears at bay. Since shedding so many yesterday all over Brogan’s shirt, she had struggled to recover her equilibrium. Now she wanted to weep constantly. “That’s why I’m glad you found and restored her dulcimer. Sudie said an instrument longs to be played and loved. If it is left to gather dust, forgotten on the shelf, it’s like leaving its heart unsung.”

“That’s a beautiful way to put it,” Mrs. Trent said in a soft voice. “There is something sad about an unwanted and unused instrument. Did your grandmother teach you to play the dulcimer?”

Melender nodded, bracing herself for Mr. Trent to make his request for her to sing at his gathering next month, but the older man took the conversation into another direction. “Do you happen to know where your ancestors came from before settling in Appalachia?”

“Sudie talked about our ancestry a lot, but I was young.” She shrugged. “I didn’t pay as close attention as I should have when she told her stories. But I do remember that the first of the Harman line—called Harne back then—were Ulster Scots, who migrated from Ireland to Pennsylvania, then down into the Appalachians in Virginia.”

“Why would the Scots be in Ireland?” Brogan piled cheese on his second fajita.

Mr. Trent leaned forward. “The Ulster Scots, also called the Scots-Irish, came from lowland Scotland. They migrated to Ireland’s Ulster as part of a government-sanctioned planned colonization under James VI of Scotland and I of England.” Mr. Trent filled another tortilla. “Eventually, the Scots-Irish emigrated to America, bringing with them their traditions and folk songs.”

“And thus ends our history lesson for today.” Mrs. Trent laughed as she winked at her husband.

Mr. Trent held up his hands. “I wasn’t going to launch into a full discourse on the Ulster Scots, my dear.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she rejoined, “but just in case, I wanted to forestall you.” She turned to Melender. “Nolan has a tendency to think everyone’s as fascinated by the history of American folk songs as he is and can sometimes forget he’s not in a classroom.”

The normalcy of the banter touched Melender deeply. She scrambled for something to add to the conversation before she started bawling. Again. Her emotions seesawed between elation about the progress being made on her case and sorrow for everything she had lost. Add in her struggles to readjust to life outside prison, and no wonder tears threatened to fall at the most inopportune times. Like last night, when Brogan had held her so gently. If she closed her eyes, she could recreate the sensation of his arms around her, one hand stroking her hair, his lips against her temple as he whispered words of comfort. But she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury.

Returning to the table conversation, she said, “Sudie had an old Bible with the births, deaths, and marriages of our family going back generations. I brought it with me when I moved in with Ruby and Quentin, but I don’t know what happened to it.” She hadn’t thought about the Bible in years. A sudden longing to hold it in her hands, to read the old King James verses and to know that centuries of Harmans had done the same overwhelmed her.

Mr. Trent leaned forward. “Do you happen to remember the earliest date in the family tree?”

Melender stared down at her plate as she concentrated on picturing the page in her mind. The funny lettering that turned “s” into “f” came into focus in her memory, then the first entry. “I think it was 1752 or 53.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to dredge up the names. “The marriage of Clyde Harne to Mary Ewing, I think.”

“Ah, that’s the first wave of emigration to America by the Ulster Scots.” Mr. Trent wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Your family has a rich heritage, if you have a Bible that records its history that far back.”

“Sudie would tell stories about our ancestors. But I remember the songs more.” She held her breath, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the music. Mr. Trent would ask her to sing again, and she would feel obligated to comply, since she was staying at their house. She should have spent part of yesterday searching for a place of her own but had been focused on reading through the files instead.

“Melender, while you’re staying with us, if you want to play your grandmother’s dulcimer, you’re more than welcome to.” Mr. Trent exchanged a glance with his wife. “In fact, my wife and I have talked it over, and we’d like you to consider staying with us indefinitely. Frankly, after what Brogan told us about the break in, we’re concerned about you being on your own. We’d like to help, and you could work on your files with Brogan anytime.”

For a moment, Melender couldn’t say anything. The generosity from near-strangers wrapped her like the hug from an old friend. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Brogan prodded, a twinkle in his eye.

With another glance at the Trents, Melender decided that using her free time to review the files would be better than finding a new place to stay, at least in the short term. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Trent clapped her hands. “Wonderful. Now who wants peach pie with ice cream?”

* * *

Brogan stareddown at the police interview with Isadora Alonso, but he didn’t read the words. Across from him, Melender bent her head to study another file. A tendril of hair had escaped her braid to rest on her cheek. His fingers itched to tuck it behind her ear just to feel the silkiness of the strand again. He needed to get a grip and concentrate on reading the files. At this rate, it would take them weeks to weed through all the interviews and other case notes. Mentally shaking his head, he returned to finish reading the police interview with the nanny.

Delaney:Who was at the house when you left for the club?

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